I’m sure my wife still loves me, in fact I have no doubt

But one thing now concerns me, and I’ve began to think about.

I’ve never been a slipper guy, bare feet, sock soles for me

At Christmas she bought me slippers and left them by the tree.

Now these weren’t special slippers, just plain slippers, as slippers go

Grey and slightly fluffy, the sort all dads will know.

These have very little grip at the back around my heels

They feel more like flip flops or how I imagine they would feel.

Worn around the bedroom or the kitchen they are fine

But then that thing that’s irking me came crunching to my mind.

On stairs they are a death trap whether going up or down

For they become gigantic like the shoes worn by a clown.

The carpet takes the form of ice, my lack of grip kicks in

Down I go arms flailing, banging knee and shin.

I miss a step, I slip and trip, and tumble to my arse

Wearing these and using stairs really is a farce.

I don’t think I have managed once not to take a bleeding fall

From halfway up upon my arse I slide down to the hall.

Now did she buy these slippers unaware of how they’d be

Or am I wrong and there’s a bigger plan to rid herself of me.